


Tigers in the Sky

by DiurnalDays



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Burma, China, Eventual Romance, Historical, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Minor Character Death, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Singapore, Violence, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2020-04-07 23:25:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19095154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiurnalDays/pseuds/DiurnalDays
Summary: July 1941. Seeking adventure abroad, America enlists as one of the first hundred American volunteer fighter pilots to sail to Burma and fight the Japanese as mercenaries for China. However, a chance encounter along the way causes his journey to soar to new heights.(Historical Hetalia, canonverse, eventual USUK)





	1. American Patrol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of a few things.

Stars streaked overhead, shearing through the clear dark sky with trails of light following. America watched the stars streaking across the sky as if everything were happening at half pace. Bursts of flame billowed from the horizon like a distant rising sun, and yet America couldn’t smell smoke nor determine the path of the flames.

 

He could only discern the fiery paths overhead and a warm sticky breeze gripping at his sides.

 

America opened his eyes to a blue void overhead dotted with faint wisps of cloud. Endless blue ocean stretched in all directions - water, water, and more water. He lay reclined on a wooden deck chair on the deck of the Dutch liner _Jagersfontein_ as she sliced a line across the Pacific.

 

Only hours before at 1:20 PM sharp, the _Jagersfontein_ had pulled away from her entourage of waving wives and girlfriends and then swiftly passed under the Golden Gate Bridge with the prudence of a working woman. The sea had quickly grown rough afterwards, so the men who’d vomited their farewell lunches over the rail after a swell quickly retreated into the liner’s interior. America had seen far worse himself, of course, so he smirked and waved at the men who passed by and then closed his eyes for a catnap right by the saltwater pool.

 

And then that odd dream had flashed before his eyes. China had once mentioned prophetic visions at a world meeting, though at the time America had been too preoccupied with his own grandiose ideas to listen to the rumors of a superstitious country.

 

Still, perhaps China’s words held some truth to them -- something about that vision felt dimly familiar to him. He briefly wondered how China was doing before remembering why he was aboard a Dutch liner in the first place.

 

He, along with the pilot boys and mechanics aboard the _Jagersfontein_ , had been recruited straight out of the United States military for some civilian fighter pilot outfit currently being assembled in Burma to defend Free China’s last remaining supply route from the Japs -- an American Volunteer Group, or AVG for short, if you will. Every man traveled incognito with backgrounds ranging from Brooklyn to Selfridge Field and a made-up profession listed on his passport.

 

America’s own passport listed his profession as “doctor”, which he thought was a lie about as believable as a philanderer stating his profession as “missionary”. America didn’t look anything at all like a licensed medical professional even disregarding the baby fat rounding out his cheeks. Really, whoever made these things had obviously never spent more than a moment in a room with him present.

 

As for why he was heading out for a volunteer military mission during ostensible peacetime, well, he simply considered himself an American thrillseeker on an exotic adventure.

 

Sure, a monthly salary starting from $600 for a pilot -- around two to three times the monthly salary in the armed forces for a grunt -- and a commission of $500 for every Jap plane downed didn’t exactly hurt, but little could compare to the promised adventure of fighting Japs in the Orient like some comic strip hero. It wasn’t as if his government really needed him for anything for the duration of the year he would be contracted, anyway. President Roosevelt had handled himself fine for decades and would handle himself fine for many decades more.

 

Additionally, he’d always preferred fighter planes, having flown single-seat planes ever since their advent. An American-built truck of a fighter plane like the Curtiss P-40B would be like a second home to him. A thrill spread through his veins at the thought of soaring above foreign lands in the cockpit of a sturdy fighter.

 

He closed his eyes again. The vision didn’t return.

 

Laying there without sweet sleep or strange visions to entertain himself with was super boring, so he rose and headed inside to his room so that he could read his stash of action comic books atop his bunk.

 

For dinner, America sat at the head table with Captain Brower and a smattering of other volunteer pilots -- Jack Newkirk, James Howard, Bob Sandell, Charlie Mott, Bob Power, Mickey McGuire, and Hal Rushton, he learned their names were. He groaned when he saw the array of silverware spread before him as plate after plate of rich Dutch cuisine arrived at the table. His only relief was the apparent fact that few of the other pilots knew what to do with their forks either, a social faux pas he decided to cover up by cracking some jokes while characteristically ignoring the atmosphere.

 

As planned, he introduced himself to the boys with his human name of Alfred F. Jones, though he dodged questions about what exactly his middle name stood for and where exactly he hailed from and whatnot. He found that the conversation quickly shifted as the boys lost interest in his peculiar lack of backstory.

 

Later that night, America pulled out a small leather-bound notebook in his bedroom and set it on the provided desk. The porthole was closed as per the nightly blackout, so the air in his room was rather stifling with heat. He wasn’t allowed to turn on any lights either, so he’d have to write in the dark.

 

Apparently the Japs had previously threatened to sink the _Jagersfontein_ over Tokyo Radio, at least according to hearsay, so America couldn’t really fault the captain for taking precautions. Still, he wasn't exactly happy about the sweat condensing on his forehead as he pulled his desk chair out and uncapped his pen.

 

 _July 10, 1941_ , he dated the first page.

 

_All Aboard! Today I’m off to Burma._

 

He tapped his pen against his chin in thought.

 

_Our departure from San Fran was really uneventful besides a weird-ass vision I saw while snoozing. The accommodations here are way nicer than anything I’ve had in the past few years, so that’s swell. Don’t know which fork to use though._

 

_It’s super dark right now here, so I’m not sure if I’m writing on the paper or on the desk right now. Maybe tomorrow I’ll play bridge with the boys after black-out._

 

He capped his pen after that. The darkness was straining his eyes.

 

* * *

 

The next few days aboard the _Jagersfontein_ were even more uneventful than the first. America soon forgot about the strange vision between sunbathing on the deck, scarfing down elaborate meals, and playing bridge with whichever boys he could rope into his games despite his flawless win record.

 

Normally he’d throw a few games to avoid arousing suspicion amidst civilians who definitely weren’t privy to his status, of course, but the sight of his buddies throwing up their hands at yet another loss was simply too amusing.

 

When he finished his stash of action comics, he started on his secondary stash of books concerning the culture and history of China and Burma. Of course, he found them rather dry and boring ( _just like a certain guy across the pond)_ , but a few times he found himself snorting at the strange habits of the natives or jotting down notes on geographical details which could potentially prove useful in battle.

 

At around 11:00 the ship’s barefooted turbaned Javanese boys would make their rounds around the deck to serve cool drinks. That wasn’t the only diversion America had from reading, of course. Sometimes he’d drop a book midway through to kick a medicine ball around or jump in on a game of Ping-Pong or shuffleboard.

 

At one point he discovered through word of mouth that CAMCO -- the company who’d contracted with the pilots -- had supplied the liner with a collection of band instruments to be played, though he quickly found that the boys were about as apt at playing the clarinet as they were at speaking Mandarin.

 

To be more blunt, America would’ve sooner listened to a symphony of constipated Canadian geese.

 

A few other men took afternoon classes in Mandarin with Dr. Samuel Pan, but America attended one session and promptly decided to skip out. He doubted he’d need to say anything to the Chinese that wouldn’t be filtered through interpreters anyway. And if he did manage to meet China in Kunming or Chongqing, well, there always was the common language of nations.

 

After six days of smooth sailing, the _Jagersfontein_ docked in Hawaii for a while to unload cargo. Though some pilots alighted to drink the evening away at the Royal Hawaii Hotel’s bar or run amok through downtown Honolulu, America didn’t join them.

 

He thought that Hawaii was the same warm isle it always had been and would be, so he only took a short stroll around Honolulu’s streetcar-lined streets before returning to his trusty deck chair on board for some more reading.

 

The next morning, some of the pilots took their squadron passes with them so that they see old military buddies at Pearl Harbor, but America didn’t follow them.

 

There wasn’t anyone he’d want to see, really, so what was the point?     

 

That afternoon, the _Jagersfontein_ pulled out of Honolulu with the heavy cruisers Northampton and Salt Lake City as escorts. America contemplated joining in on the ongoing rounds of blackjack and poker before deciding against it, having lived through the worst of times pinching his pennies.

 

Still, he pulled out his trusty Lucky Strikes at the bar and struck up easy conversation with a few other pilots as money clinked between hands a few seats over.

 

“Where exactly do you come from, ‘Fred?” one man asked. “No need to get shy -- loads of us come from Tulsa and wherever.”

 

Laughter spread around the table.

 

“I come from everywhere and nowhere,” America said. He deliberately ignored the atmosphere with a wide grin. “Say, about that Shellback business coming up in a few days when we cross the equator…”

 

Another man patted America across the back as the conversation shifted to the impending hazing ritual for the men that hadn’t before crossed the equator. “Heh, so that’s your answer? Well, we’ll get a straight answer out of ya by the time the night’s over.”

 

America smiled blasely. He raised his glass to that.  

 

A few hours later, he grinned as he pocketed a handful of bills over the tabletop. The other pilots, though obviously miffed that they hadn’t received the answer they wanted, smirked good-naturedly back at him.

 

 _“Maybe a little bit of gambling here and there isn’t too bad after all if the odds are in my favor,”_ he wrote in his notebook that night.

 

The remaining days blurred into each other just as the previous few did, albeit with a new addition of occasional deck tennis with the nurse Jane Foster -- though her beauty did as much for him as that of a daisy would, given that she was a mortal woman.

 

As much as the boys raved about Jane’s “ravishing” looks and red hair, she kept a professional distance from all except for the few men she chose to dance with. America often sat by Jane’s phonograph on the deck drinking in the fresh sea air as Jane and John Petach -- a rather handsome pilot with a bass voice -- danced to Sinatra and Miller nearby.

 

Despite Jane’s indifference to America himself, though, he always had an affable smile to spare for her whenever they passed each other by on the deck.

 

Then again, America’s interest quickly died when it came to romance with girls, so he usually kept to his own business of bridge games and semi-interesting books and whatnot when he wasn’t relaxing by her phonograph -- though he was quickly tiring even of that. Really, all this luxury was rather comfortable, but America -- pioneer and explorer extraordinaire --  found himself yearning for something more.

 

 

* * *

 

On a lazy August Saturday, the captain posted a notice that the _Jagersfontein_ would dock in Singapore that Monday and, as such, the pilots should ready their baggage for disembarkation. Of course, Burma was the real destination, but the _Jagersfontein_ had other business to attend to besides waiting hand and foot on her roguish young male passengers.

 

Just before he saw the notice, America had been sulking about the purser confiscating his camera because of officials not taking a liking to unsolicited photos of their island fortifications or whatever. Of course, he was keeping his identity on the down low, so he couldn’t exactly inform the purser that the United States of America incarnate himself would be the last person on Earth to sell photographs to the Japs. But still!

 

Sure, the purser had also taken his M1911 away which, _alright_ , that was a more reasonable confiscation given that he was standing on a civilian boat amidst civilians as a civilian, but he felt empty-handed without either his pistol or his camera in his bag.

 

Then, he saw the notice, and all of his trifles faded away in exchange for the excitement of awaiting a brand new exotic destination.

 

All America wrote in his notebook that day was,

 

_“Finally, something interesting. Singapore awaits in two days.”_

 

 

* * *

  
  


On the night before the _Jagersfontein_ docked at Singapore, America jolted up in bed sticky with sweat.

 

The pitch dark of blackout solidified around him as his breathing fell into a slow rhythm. With a rustling of sheets he peeled himself off his bed and pressed his hands against his shirt before holding them up to his eyes to check for blood.

 

There was none.

 

* * *

 

 

On August 11 at around 7:00, the _Jagersfontein_ sluggishly pulled herself into Singapore’s harbor as if she had better haunts to frequent. America stood on the deck to smoke a Lucky Strike and take in the exotic sights as the muggy clime clung to his skin.

 

Singapore was a cacophony of whitewashed walls and a mixture of Orientals and soldiers bustling about between squat automobiles and rickshaws and bicycles and ragged billboards advertising all sorts of exotic goods and oddities. As the _Jagersfontein_ awaited her turn to dock and unload cargo, America watched a few of the boys throw coins over the railing to the coolies on the nearby dock and then jeer as a mad scramble ensued.

 

America then turned his attention to the palm trees swaying between buildings and the apparent melting pot of cultures called the British Crown Colony of Singapore.

 

He’d never stopped by here before in the past century or so, preferring to trade at gunpoint with China and Japan and occasionally stake out territories here and there while sailing the Pacific, and yet he could instantly recognize England’s ever pervasive influence over Singapore. The last dregs of British imperialism floated through the withered streets and clogged waters of the island like a heavy layer of talcum powder.

 

He found it stifling.

 

The _Jagersfontein_ was set to leave the next morning and America had never seen Singapore for himself before, so he drifted into a group of men headed into the city after all of the boring bureaucratic mumbo jumbo was sorted out in the afternoon.

 

Really, he felt as if he were on a leisurely vacation in the tropics just weeks before promised grandeur and adventure, and his attitude seemed to be reflected in the carefree smiles and loose pockets of the pilots around him. The group of restless men first took a trackless tram to the port’s main gate before forming a caravan of rickshaws headed downtown through Singapore’s bustling streets.

 

At first, America thought he’d spend his day by joining a gaggle of other pilots in rubbernecking the Oriental bits and bobs spilling from various run-down storefronts. Just as he stepped foot outside of his third curio shop, however, he saw James Howard and Robert Brouk both eyeing a taxi driver leaning against a wall nearby.

 

He strolled over to conspiratorially elbow Howard in the side. “Thinking of taking a stroll around this place’s sights with your pals?”

 

A few moments later the Malay taxi driver was narrating the highlights of Singapore in lightly accented English as sounds and wind alike flashed by the open-air cab windows. America turned his head this way and that with unabashed enthusiasm all the while. He could tell at a glance that Howard, though obviously less accustomed to the bumpy ride than Alfred F. _“I remember horse-drawn carriages and carts”_ Jones, was studying Singapore’s aging sights with a degree of familiarity and yet distance.

 

That’s when America realized that he didn’t know Howard or Brouk or any of the other pilots terribly well. He felt a pang when he realized that the look on Howard’s face was similar to what he himself had felt when he visited Britain for the first time in nearly a century back in the 1860s.

 

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

 

“As a boy, yes,” Howard replied. “I wanted to see if anything had changed since I’d last seen this place. It’s the same as ever, just aged about twenty years.”

 

America nodded with a noise of sympathy. London or Singapore, it didn’t matter -- England and his stuffiness were as eternal as the setting sun.

 

A few of the sights in Singapore caught America’s momentary interest, namely as the tame monkeys in the Botanical Park and the jade carvings in the Tiger Balm Museum. The rest of the trip blurred together in a soup of history blander than the architecture ( _seriously, just how many buildings named for stiff British socialites can one colony hold?_ ) and a few sights which America didn’t take much interest in before the driver stopped at the entrance of a rather formidable looking British fortification. America’s interest was immediately piqued by the rather apparent fact that the wall seemed to extend only around the sea shore and not the expansive jungle which lined Singapore’s northern perimeter.

 

“There are big cannons in that wall that point towards the sea,” the driver explained, gesturing upwards. “They can be raised and lowered from concrete silos. No Jap can enter our harbor. They’ll get shot.”

 

“Well, don’t you think that the Japs could just stroll on through the jungle instead of the ocean?” America pointed out, voicing what Howard was likely also thinking. “The French thought the same thing a year ago, you know.”

 

“The jungle is impenetrable. No Jap will get through,” the driver said stubbornly, and then he turned the cab away from the fortifications.

 

The last stop of the little cab tour was the Raffles Hotel, a rather ornate colonial hotel with palm trees swaying in front. As America, Brouk, and Howard approached the hotel, the turbaned Sikh Raffles Doorman diligently held the heavy front doors open as if the three dust-caked men before him were coiffed British elites. America, Brouk, and Howard then wandered together into the sun-filled lobby, which was every bit as ornately ivory as the facade, awestruck by the sweeping grandeur of the whole shebang.

 

If the rest of Singapore was filled the dregs of British imperialism, the Raffles Hotel was a full tea satchel of imperialism -- and yet America felt he could breathe easier here than amidst what felt like Victorian England’s rotting colonial corpse.  

 

Movement in the corner of America’s eye caught his attention. A few vaguely familiar volunteer pilots were waving at him next to the iconic Long Bar -- which was truly the longest in all of Singapore -- pink Singapore Slings held in the other hand and peanut shells scattered about their feet. America sloppily saluted back.   

 

Though America hadn’t seen such downright lavish accommodations for a good few decades, his interest quickly waned in the hotel’s furnishings when Howard bumped into two American pilots named Price and Cady from the _Saratoga_ fighter squadron VF-3 in the middle of the lobby. By then America could’ve gone for several courses of Dutch cuisine, so he was tickled pink when Ensigns Price and Cady took them to a rather swanky Chinese restaurant where their plates were piled high with dumplings, a meat curry called _satay_ , and a chicken fricassee called _opor._  

 

Soon after they’d wiped out the rich dinner and paid the bill, Pride and Cady took them to a cabaret where the sound of American jazz filtered out into the street in an amusement park aptly named The New World. The change of scenery was a relief to America as he’d long tuned out whatever they were saying about whichever British elite named Raffles arrived to Singapore when.

 

When they entered, America noted with some amusement that Price and Cady immediately gravitated towards the Chinese hostesses with dresses hiked up above their knees in the middle of the club.

 

“You going to take some of these girls up on dancing, Jones?” Howard asked.

 

“Don’t mind me. I’ll hold on to my nickels listening to the band in a nice armchair of my own. Go on, go get ‘em.” Alfred waved encouragingly towards the dance floor.

 

Howard raised an eyebrow with an unsaid question at that, but he seemed to quickly forget about America’s strange aversion to women when a beauty with legs sure to be deemed “ravishing” swept him away.

 

When Price, Cady, Brouk, and Howard developed an itch for drinks right before the 12:00 bar curfew, the group of them headed back to the Raffles towards the dining room.

 

Now, if the Raffles Hotel was a full tea satchel of British imperialism, then surely the dining room was a stray gold-encrusted diamond dropped by some rotund officer into his drink. America almost found himself grimacing at the gaudiness of the decorations. Sure, his own cowboy shows and pulp comics weren’t exactly subtle either, but did everything need to be so damn _shiny_?

 

Then he noticed that the paint on the walls was peeling away. Maybe the tendrils of rot stretching through Singapore extended even into its crown jewel.

 

America sat with the other pilots at a table and nursed his brightly colored gin cocktail when it arrived. He watched Britishers twirl about to a jazz tune and saw every person on the floor not as the glittering jewels of society but rather as flickering candle flames as temporary as they were bright. A few more pilots sat down at the table and struck up lively conversations with the others in the periphery.

 

And then, time held still for America. He saw acrid green eyes meeting his. England was intermingling with his own men, as was typical for a nation amongst his blooded soldiers, but every mortal would always fade away in comparison to the timelessness of England’s sharp face. He shot England a sardonic wink and knew that he’d caught his attention when two green eyes were trained squarely on him.

 

“Hey, Arthur! Come on over here and say hello to the boys!”

 

“You know him?” Howard asked, eyebrow cocked.

 

America’s smile faltered just a little when he remembered that Howard and the other pilots wouldn’t know the history between himself and England. Unless they read a textbook, that is, but textbooks didn’t get into the whole Revolution against a mentor figure thing and all.

 

Before America could muster a sufficiently vague answer, however, England marched over to their table with his arms crossed and a cigarette between his lips. A few young British pilots followed close behind as they eyed up the medals on the lapels of the American pilots at the table. As America and Howard were rather underdressed by comparison in their civilian clothing, they were less prime targets for medal scuffing -- and yet England deigned to focus all of his attention on America and nobody else.

 

“What’s with that Alfred guy, anyway? He’s strangely chummy with the Brits. He must not be one of those blue-collar Americans with disdain for all things pompous and pretentious.”

 

“He sure lit up like a match when he saw that Brit officer.”

 

America chose to ignore the curious whispers of the men, instead wrapping his elbow around England’s -- or he would’ve, if England hadn’t recoiled as if America’s arm were a hot coal. Despite America’s best attempts at a winsome pout, however, England’s glare didn’t turn any less acidic.

 

“So,” America began, but England cut him off before he could continue.

 

“You’re here,” England drawled with a cocked eyebrow as if the fact of America’s very existence surprised him. “And as uncouth as ever, I see. Regardless, has your government decided to punch the Japanese square in the nose yet? Took you long enough.”

 

“No, not quite, though I sure do wish we did. Come on, have a seat.” America pulled out a chair for England with a scrape of wood against carpet. When England didn’t take the offered seat, America smiled on as if nothing had happened.

 

“Actually, Howard, Brouk, and I are part of a new fighter pilot outfit headed towards Burma -- an American volunteer group, if you will. You might’ve heard of us through the Brit chain of command?”

 

“Yes, I did hear of the outdated P-40s diverted towards some Chinese operation.” England scowled. “I didn’t think that those planes would end up with a ragtag bunch of Americans, however.”

 

“Now, don’t you discount us Americans like that,” America said, knowing a challenge when he heard one. “We’ve got Navy, Air Force, all stripes of experience -- you name it, we got it! We’d fly loops in our P-40s around you Brits and your Buffaloes any day.”

 

Having hoped for a smile or at least a snort from England, America was disappointed but not surprised when England’s expression instead turned disinterested and distant.

 

“So you American soldiers of fortune use outdated Tomahawks for your… operations,” England blew a whiff of smoke between his lips. “Does Lend-Lease mean nothing to you?”

 

At this point America was sure that England was being purposefully antagonistic, and yet he felt his blood rise at the naked insult. “Like your government would’ve come crying to us for Lend-Lease if the mighty British Empire weren’t so damn broke,” he bit out through a grin that likely resembled a sneer.

 

To America’s shock, England put out his cigarette on the fancy tablecloth as if it were a rag and then turned away on his heel.

 

“I have no business quarreling with a man willing to chip in his part only when the moment suits him,” he hissed. “Until you truly plant your feet on the right side of the war, don’t come mooning after me as if I’m some old war buddy of yours.” He marched in a huff out the door when America didn’t respond.

 

“What kind of stick is up that Brit’s ass?” one of the pilots seated at the table said when England had left the ballroom. The comment elicited a spate of sniggering around the table, mostly from the Americans.

 

Soon, the conversation shifted towards the pilots seated at that table who’d fought in the Battle of Britain and what they thought of the maneuverability of the American-made Brewster Buffaloes versus that of the P-40s and whatnot.

 

“Well, the Raffles management and patrons are still smarting from a fiasco recently when several of your AVG crewmen arrived in polos and suspenders when the proper British attire is evening dress,” Price explained to a perplexed-looking Howard. “Management denied admittance to them and, well, they threw empty bottles and furniture before the police threw them in jail. The US consul had to advocate for their release.”

 

Price raised an eyebrow as he concluded his story. “Your boys are not exactly ambassadors of goodwill.”

 

“That’s a good example,” Howard replied. “of blue-collar America rebelling as they did at the Boston Tea Party against British rule and showing disdain for all things pompous and pretentious. While I don’t agree with what they did, I can see for myself that these British residents seem to be having their last fling at colonialism.”

 

Through all of these conversations, America continuously stared at where England had stood minutes before with flames dancing in green eyes as if spreading through tropical underbrush.

 

As much as things had changed, sometimes they truly stayed the same.

 

* * *

 

 

The next afternoon at around 2:15 PM, the _Jagersfontein_ pulled away from the dock with two pilots strangely missing. The two pilots in question, Merritt and Mangleburg, ran up to the dock late and promptly enlisted a water taxi which rushed them to the _Jagersfontein_ just as the liner was about to leave the harbor. America sat in his familiar deck chair grinning at the pair of disheveled pilots as they jogged by.

 

The _Jagersfontein_ had headed through the Strait of Malacca at full speed for less than half an hour when the dull whine of engines announced the arrival of several RAF boys. The boys swooped almost playfully in their chunky Brewster Buffaloes around the liner to the cheers of the pilots lounging about on deck.

 

America cheekily waved up at the sky when he saw the Buffaloes passing overhead. Though he glimpsed a flash of green and blonde in the cockpit of one of the Buffaloes, England didn’t even spare him a single wiggle of his wings before flying far into the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the historical details here are referenced from James Howard’s “Roar of the Tiger” as well as Robert Brouk’s diary compiled in “Soaring with the Tigers”. In this chapter, much of the exchange between Price and Howard after England’s little fit is directly quoted from “Roar of the Tiger” with some minor alterations.  
> Though I tried to be as accurate as possible to the experiences of these two men as well as to the time period, some creative liberty was taken for the sake of the narrative as well as filling in gaps in primary accounts. 
> 
> Some information was referenced from secondary sources such as Sam Kleiner’s “The Flying Tigers: The Untold Story” and Daniel Ford’s “100 Fair Pilots” as well. Actually, my secondary sources range between the Raffles Hotel website to a scale airplane figure magazine I picked up at the National Museum of WWII Aviation. The stuff I’ll do out of love for a ship...
> 
> Also, fun fact: The P-40s the AVG used were technically P-40C/Hawk 81-A-3s to Curtiss's records, but as they lacked provisions for a drop tank they were closer in construction to P-40Bs. Tomahawk is the name given to the P-40 line by the Brits. The 100 P-40Bs diverted to the AVG were then replaced by a shipment of P-40D Kittyhawks, so you could say that America and the AVG’s Tomahawks *would* be pretty outdated in England’s eyes. 
> 
> Yes, the Japanese forces really did just go around the wall when they invaded Singapore later that year. Some primary sources say that they biked through the northern jungle, even, but given the propensity of wartime accounts to exaggerate details, I took that with a grain of salt. 
> 
> Singapore (the city, not a hetalia oc) may or may not cameo again later. ...Does talking about historical events yet to be covered by a fic count as spoiling the plot when it's all happened already? 
> 
> As for how this encounter and the adventures that follow will turn out for our lovely America and England, stay tuned for more updates. ;)
> 
> Chapter title taken from the Glenn Miller song of the same name.


	2. This Is The Army, Mr. Jones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America distracts himself.

The dark and green waters of the Irrawaddy River drew into view on the 15th as a heavy downpour cloaked everything save for a few harbor lights in darkness.

 

 America looked out at this classic Burmese sight for a few moments before wordlessly withdrawing into his quarters for a final night aboard the _Jagersfontein_. 

 

_As much as this boat is a trap devised by an evil villain to inspire boredom in the finest of heroes, this boat has also been my home for a whole fat month. And I don’t just mean that in the sense of how long this journey has been. I think more than a few of the boys had too many lavish Dutch meals for a while now._

 

_I’m definitely not referring to myself. I’m the epitome of American fitness. Totally the peak of muscle._

 

America wrote that last comment further down on the page with a hesitant scribble before closing his notebook and slipping it into his bag. He totally wasn’t counting the number of planes he’d need to lift in order to burn his fat off right before bed as a substitute for counting sheep. 

 

 

* * *

  
  


A blue sky greeted America as he stepped out onto the deck one last time early the next morning after breakfast. The warm wind carried with it the organic smell of river water and tropical jungle soil.

 

He didn’t pay much heed to the official business taking place as the _Jagersfontein_ approached her berth in Rangoon, instead seating himself on his trusty deck chair and watching the sampans and more international-looking vessels dock along the sides of the river with heavy loads of cargo that was surely headed up the Burma Road. The glittering Shwedagon Pagoda loomed 325 feet tall over the rest of Rangoon in the distance.

 

The one official development America was excited about was the return of all the pilots’ valuables from the purser’s office, including his trusty camera which he’d oh-so-dearly missed. He may or may not have grasped his camera a little bit too tightly when he finally held it in his hands again. 

 

There was his M1911 too, of course, which he slipped into his bag with considerably less fanfare. 

 

A lighter took America and the other pilots ashore where a bus took the lot to the Silver Grill -- a lively Burmese-style pub with enclosed booths -- for a second, much heartier breakfast. His stomach growled a note of thanks at the sight of food. 

 

The following seven-hour train ride to the re-purposed RAF Keydaw Airdrome in Toungoo flashed by in what seemed like minutes, though America did sometimes look up from his well-worn stack of comics to observe drowsy water buffalo wandering about villages ringed by rice paddies. Somehow, the sight faintly reminded him of the Midwest’s cattle-dotted plains back home. He snapped a few pictures with his camera so that he could compare Burma to rural Kansas side-by-side at some point.

 

He definitely didn’t wonder if England had been in Singapore on a military assignment to Burma or if he had been there simply to preen over his colonial jewel of the Orient -- as America was sure his egotistical ass was prone to doing.

 

No, the adventures of Buck Rogers in 2419 AD. were far simpler to understand than the enigma with a thousand names known simply as England. 

 

He definitely, absolutely was not reading Buck Rogers comics just so that he wouldn’t imagine England every time he saw a swathe of lush green grass or a particularly stubborn-looking buffalo.

 

Torrential monsoon rain began to fall soon before the train pulled up to the station in Toungoo. The pilots’ baggage was loaded onto trucks and the pilots themselves were driven in station wagons around 8 miles out to the barracks buildings at the field.

 

Once at the outpost, a few CAMCO ground crewmen who’d arrived early -- perhaps the very same crewmen who had trashed a Raffles hotel room in Singapore in contempt of the British -- leaned close and jeered at the incoming caravan of vehicles filled with fresh-faced men. 

 

“This is the stink hole of the world! You might as well turn around and go back now!”

 

“Your barracks have no screening. All the bugs of Asia are here to greet you. Last night at chow time, a huge stink bug dropped in my soup bowl as I brought the spoon to my lips. There’s no hot water and the latrines are out in the boondocks, where you have to step over snakes along the way. As you can see there’s mud everywhere, even in your shoes. Worst of all, there are only two P-40s on the line. They are being assembled from crates. The rest are promised in a manner of months.”

 

Some of the men didn’t look so fresh-faced once they’d heard these taunts.

 

Taunts aside, America was looking forward to some good old wilderness after so much time spent in the coddled embrace of a Dutch liner. Besides, he’d spent time both in the dysentery-plagued Old West and the downright vile trenches of the First World War, so a few stink bugs wouldn’t trouble him -- though, of course, he decided not to mention that he remembered either of those things when he looked as if he’d only just finished high school. 

 

Instead of focusing on his physical age (or lack of it), America took that moment to survey the base he was about to be employed at. Baby face aside, he was more observant than most people thought he was. 

 

The Keydaw Airdrome was sliced out of the inhospitable Burmese rainforest in the spring of that year for RAF use, if America remembered correctly. He could see that the buildings were constructed of frame construction with laced bamboo matting for walls and grass matting for roofs without any protective screening to speak of. A single, recently paved four-thousand-foot runway ran down the length of the post. The roads were handmade of clay and stone by coolies and wound between the scattered buildings. The buildings were dispersed at least 1000 yards apart from each other so as to avoid easy destruction in the case of bombing -- a lesson probably hard learned from the Battle of Britain, America noted. 

 

He could definitely feel England’s presence looming over everything here ranging from the design of the airfield all the way down to the two out of one hundred P-40s promised to the AVG that currently sat in the hangar. While England was a resourceful and clever guy as a result of his years as a pirate, he would definitely be a spiny spiteful bastard if he so chose. 

 

Actually, America wasn’t really sure how he could blame England for the apparent ineptitude of whoever was responsible for shipping these things, but he was sure he could find a way to blame England anyway.

 

Whether the rest eventually arrived before combat started didn’t matter -- England was definitely cackling atop a pile of gold coins and unopened P-40 crates right about now.

 

America continued studying the airfield. The mess halls were divided into two -- one for officers and one for enlisted men -- and, worryingly, just as open to the elements as the rest of the airfield’s buildings. Did insects and weather simply not exist in England? America was pretty sure that spiders existed in England and that there was far too much rain in London all the time, so surely there was no excuse for such an oversight. 

 

The large hangar, which looked as if it could fit around eighteen planes at a time, was nearly two miles from the mess halls with a petrol dump midway in between, a distance which would amount to a rough ride in one of the three station wagons or, alternatively, one of the three ‘41 Plymouths available for pilot use.  

 

The barracks, which were the same for both officers and enlisted men, consisted of one long room per barracks building with sixteen mosquito net covered beds with a dresser between each of them. A shower with large tubs and cold but clean running water stood around 50 feet away from the barracks with separate springs 50 feet in another direction -- a nice convenience -- and the barracks apparently had both electricity (though without a radio, tragically) and a phonograph.  

 

Thankfully, there also seemed to be a laundry, a barber, and other small conveniences offered by Burmese civilians who had set up shop on the airfield, so America would live somewhere between civilization and adventure like he’d always dreamed. A hero couldn’t do heroic deeds without a clean wardrobe, after all!

 

All of this sightseeing and deep analytical thinking made America tired after an extended day of travel, of course, so he quickly took his baggage from the truck and claimed the nearest straw bed in the barracks for himself. He fell backwards bonelessly and stared up at the mosquito canopy as the day’s thoughts ebbed down to a dull buzz.

 

36 days of slow travel punctuated by excitement and foreign customs and England had come to its finale at a run-down British airbase in the middle of the Burmese rainforest. 

 

America shoved any errant thoughts of England and his fiery tongue into the back recesses of his mind as he slipped into a deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just returned from my trip to London! I'd definitely recommend the Churchill War Rooms to anyone else who enjoys WWII history.  
> So far, I've written part of the third chapter and a few chunks of later chapters. As a result, updates may come slower as I cross-check sources and conduct further research. I hope you'll enjoy this fanfic at whatever pace it updates. ^^  
> In this chapter, the jeers of the crewmen are also directly quoted from “Roar of the Tiger”. Why fabricate amusing interactions between America and the other AVG pilots when primary accounts already offer humorous details worthy of a Hetalia fanfic?  
> Chapter title taken from the Pierre Vangelis song. As you can see, each and every chapter will feature a period song title with themes that at least sort of match the themes of that chapter. You could also interpret the chapter titles as my song recommendation list.


	3. Easy Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America's journey begins to take flight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'll update soon!" I say, as I proceed to take half a year to actually finish writing the third chapter. Whoops. 
> 
> I do intend on finishing this fic, however, no matter how long that takes. I have good portions of future chapters already written, I just need to find more time to focus on writing...

Flames licked across the sky in sears which burst at the seams with blood, raining down dark red droplets which melted away the Burmese vegetation wherever they fell. The plane America was flying in suddenly dissolved in a burst of crumbling fuselage as he fell backwards closer and closer to the ground with the wind ripping at his skin--

 

America jerked upright with a soft grunt of pain only to find that he’d tangled his legs in the mosquito net during the night.

 

 

* * *

  
  


The monsoon season was like a rapidly rotating wheel, America soon learned. Dark clouds would lead to heavy rainfall which would then abruptly stop and give way to torrid heat. 

 

The Burmese terrain either consisted of arid dust or of endless mud with no in-between, and bugs of all shapes and sizes teemed in every space that allowed them. 

 

Additionally, he soon found out that the mess hall grub was about as appetizing as the stink bugs that really did occasionally drop into soup bowls, though the flavor seemed to improve over time. 

 

Or maybe America fooled himself into believing that just so that he wouldn’t run into the jungle and eat snake meat one of these days.

 

On the bright side, the fat he definitely hadn’t accumulated aboard the _Jagersfontein_ was quickly fading away under the combined pressure of the wilting heat and the rather unappetizing meals. 

 

As Colonel Chennault, who’d lead the whole operation, wouldn’t arrive for another week or so, America and the other AVG pilots found ways to whittle away their idle time.

 

The firstmost and far most important task was purchasing a uniform more suitable to the weather. Naturally, they ran amok in Toungoo with pockets practically sagging with money. Of course, since the AVG technically consisted of civilians, there was no actual uniform to speak of; however, many of the men had arrived in clothing less than suited to the humid heat of Burma and ended up purchasing the same supplies as their similarly ill-prepared buddies as a result. 

 

The popular items of clothing were khaki shorts, short-sleeved shirts, bush jackets, wool stockings, calf-length Russian leather boots, and pith helmets alongside bicycles and swagger sticks. 

 

Of course, the locals’ expectations of Americans were influenced by the Hollywood movies which played in the local movie house three times a week. As a result, prices were upped for all products, presumably solely for the benefit of the pilots who had little idea of the value of one rupee versus a hundred. 

 

America decided to buy himself just a pith helmet and a bush jacket, as he was one of the rare men to have brought along a set of clothing at least slightly suited to the weather and terrain. He would’ve gone for the boots as well if he hadn’t known they were Russian-made. He didn’t trust anything touched by Russian hands. 

 

What kind of American hero showed up to a fight of good versus evil wearing Russian boots, anyway? Gee.

 

Some of the other men immediately put their bicycles to good use by taking them to Rangoon and purchasing cans of American coffee which they then brought to the Greenlaws’ two-story house at 124 Steel Road, Toungoo around four o’clock every day. 

 

Harvey and Olga Greenlaw seemed to be an odd couple, judging by the few times America had stopped by to snag a few cups of coffee, but both seemed to have a soft spot for the young AVG pilots Harvey was supposedly there to help supervise. Olga herself was a pretty and vaguely exotic -- possibly Russian -- woman with immaculately applied makeup, and America was sure there were men who visited just to see her face; but, as with most mortal women, he found her about as sexually appealing as a flower in a bouquet. 

 

There were, of course, other men spent their time and money at the Silver Grill, the pub America had eaten at upon his arrival that also provided ample entertainment in the evenings. Seeing as America had little interest in girls or drinks, he usually retired to his straw mattress in the evening and dug into one of the books he’d brought along for the trip.

 

After a few days, the retired Air Corps captain Boatner Carney, who was the temporary commanding officer in Chennault’s absence, decided to partition the men into squadrons each with their own commanding officer and deputy early on.

 

Squadron One was assigned Bob Sandell as its CO while Squadron Two and Squadron Three were assigned Jack Newkirk and Arvid Olson, respectively. The commanding officers and their deputies had the opportunity to choose the men who would make up their squadrons at an informal conference afterward.

 

America had always made sure that he kept a low profile as just an everyday American pilot, of course, so he was quickly assimilated into the mostly-Navy Second Squadron despite none of the other men knowing which branch of the army he’d actually come from. 

 

“Fred’s our wild card,” one pilot said. “You can stick him in any squadron and he’ll even ‘em out.” 

 

So into the Second Squadron he went.

 

The humid days stretched out one into another as America fell into a habit of alternating between watching the Burmese bustle about the narrow streets of Toungoo in their sarongs and finishing his last few books on Burma while wrapped in the mosquito net draped over his bed. 

 

Though muddy Burma was a far cry from the comfort of the _Jagersfontein_ or the familiarity of literally anywhere in the States, America soon found himself growing just as bored and restless as before. Without England around to distract him, it seemed, his spirit flagged under the monsoon rains just as it had underneath the tedium of Washington proceedings back home. 

 

Sure, there were only a few days left before this Colonel Chennault guy arrived to begin training the pilots, but those few days felt like an eternity to America despite his immortality and the slower sense of time which should’ve come with it.

 

He wondered just who this man could be. He hadn’t heard of any Colonel named Chennault before, though he did vaguely recall hearing about a “Claire Chennault” at the 1928 National Air Races.

 

But then, what was a flying showman doing in Burma training an outfit of American civilian pilots? 

 

America would receive an answer, albeit indirectly, when on the 22nd of August the CAMCO Beechcraft -- a modestly sized twin-engine plane -- touched down on the airfield and out emerged a military man with leathery skin dressed in an odd uniform consisting of Chinese military insignias and an old army cap. 

 

As America and the other men stood in the hangar for a personnel meeting, he sized up this man who appeared to be the mysterious Colonel Chennault. From what he could tell, Chennault was a man of military bearing whose authority radiated from his hardened features, though he didn’t quite have the presence that a man of substantial rank, such as a general or a president, possessed over his own country’s personification.

 

That much was a relief. America wasn’t enamored with the idea of Chennault inadvertently triggering a state of utter obedience in him simply by uttering commands. And that wouldn’t be any fun, considering that he did enjoy reading books and talking to the Greenlaws and occasionally causing mischief by dropping stink bugs in other pilots’ bowls of soup. He liked his humanity just the way it was, damnit. 

 

“As your commander, I welcome you to Burma, which to many of you is a far cry from the comforts of home,” Chennault began in a gravelly voice. “I want to clear up any doubts and questions you may have in your minds about our expedition since the method of recruiting was merely a blind for the purpose of getting you out to Burma. 

 

“We have an important mission to accomplish. The eyes of the world are upon us, so let us be men who can withstand the rigors of an alien land. I appeal to the spirit that does not give up and fade away when faced with a challenge. Americans of all ages respect those who overcome obstacles by standing resolutely for principle. With your courage and fortitude, we will succeed where our enemies say we will fail.” 

 

With every word that came out of the Colonel’s mouth, America found himself respecting him more and more. 

 

“As head of the American Volunteer Group, I will report directly to Generalissimo Chiang Kai-Shek. Our insignia, except for rank, will be Chinese, and we will be a military group strictly within ourselves and subject to our own disciplinary measures, not those of the Chinese military. There is no danger of loss of citizenship. A recent declaration by President Roosevelt authorized volunteers to fight for foreign nations who profess democratic faith. Pilots will be awarded a five-hundred-dollar bonus for each confirmed enemy plane destroyed.”

 

A ripple of tangible excitement spread through the ranks.

 

 _Five hundred dollars!_ America knew some of the men were thinking. _So that recruiter wasn’t lying at all!_

 

“...I have just received ten resignations,” America heard Chennault continue. He snapped back to attention. “The recruiting was done fairly with an appeal to patriotism and adventure. If your hearts and minds are not in the proper place, we have no place for slackers. When the quitters return to the United States they will have to prove their innocence or be convicted as deserters if they joined the AVG with the ulterior motive of avoiding military service. I will be giving lectures every morning on Japanese aerial tactics starting tomorrow at seven o’clock. I want to pass along one warning: _do not underrate the Jap pilots_. They have had four years of combat experience. However, I think you and our P-40s will be a match for anything they throw at us.” 

 

Out of the corner of his eye, America saw Howard lean over to Jones -- Tom Jones, the man in the Second Squadron who coincidentally shared his last name -- and whisper something in his ear. Whatever it was, it must’ve been praise for Chennault, judging by how Howard’s eyes flickered over to Chennault several times and how Jones nodded solemnly in agreement.

 

Personally, America was over the moon for Chennault’s rousing speech. Sure, maybe that was a bit of an overreaction -- any military man worth his salt could give a speech -- but he craved someone authoritative and honest to attach his loyalty to during wartime, and this Colonel definitely fit the bill. 

 

Washington or Lincoln he was not, but America cared not. He was following this man in the fight against the Japs, no matter what that may entail. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the Billie Holiday song of the same name. 
> 
> Chennault's speech is quoted almost in its entirety from "Roar of the Tiger". Certain portions of this chapter were referenced from Olga Greenlaw's "The Lady and the Tigers" in addition to the sources I've cited in a previous authors' note. 
> 
> As usual, disclaimer that I used creative license in certain areas to stitch up the gaps in firsthand accounts as well as to intertwine firsthand accounts with America's very much fictional story. 
> 
> This chapter was originally longer; however, I felt that pacing-wise it would work better split into two, one chapter for Chennault's arrival and one chapter for the ensuing training montage. The next chapter is already mostly written, so expect it to come within a day or two. 
> 
> Oh, and this story will pick up the pace soon, I promise. We'll see darling England again sooner rather than later~


	4. G.I. Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America trains himself in preparation for the battles ahead and makes a discovery concerning his own feelings.

From then on, the AVG pilots fell into a relentless routine. 

 

At 5:30 AM sharp, a Burmese man would amble between bunks and smack his gong in the ears of the sleeping pilots, commanding them to rise bright and early for training. Though this was usually met with groans, America would rise every morning with a wide smile that elicited side-eyes from his fellow men. 

 

And how could America not meet each and every day with a smile? For the first time since the First World War, he had military purpose to his life. Even if the other men were too young to understand exactly how America felt, his enthusiasm was contagious, to the point that some of them took one look at him humming to himself in the morning and proceeded to shake scorpions out of their shoes with dumb smiles spread across their faces.

 

By this time, the men of the Second Squadron had settled into calling Tom Jones “Jones” and Alfred Jones “Fred”, though a few times Howard caught himself midway through addressing Alfred as “Jones” just as he previously had in Singapore.

 

Every morning, the other AVG pilots jostled him for space in the makeshift showers and in the four-holer dirt toilet all while teasing him affectionately. He easily teased back, slipping into a brotherly dynamic with his men, knowing each and every one as a friend and compatriot -- though Jack Newkirk, the CO of the squadron, commanded special respect from America by virtue of his charming appearance and authority. 

 

They’d all then clamber to the mess hall while fending off the various insectoid interlopers endemic to humid Burma, scarf down their tasteless rations, and clamber right into Chennault’s little teakwood shack of a classroom before seven sharp.

 

Chennault would draw a little Japanese plane on the blackboard at the front of the shack, draw circles at the weak points of the plane -- oil coolers, oxygen storage, gas tanks, bomb bays -- in chalk, then erase the circles and ask each man to come to the blackboard to redraw each circle and recite what each circle represented. 

 

During Chennault’s lectures on the P-40’s physical traits and on aerial tactics and whatnot, America took studious notes in his spiral-bound notebook. 

 

He summed Chennault’s theory up as “ _Advantages: greater top speed, faster dive, more firepower. Disadvantages: not very maneuverable. Do not engage in a dogfight. Hit and run, dive, come back to altitude. Use surprise, firepower. You can never be too good at gunnery. Accuracy is very important._ ” 

 

Occasionally, America would draw little doodles in the margins of himself and England -- sometimes fighting, sometimes comparing planes, sometimes amicably eating hamburgers and scones together. 

 

He also doodled portraits of his fellow pilots, capturing them in various states of paying attention, not paying attention, or dozing off. Soon, his notebook was equally populated with detailed notes and doodles alike. After Chennault let them out of the shack each day, he let his squadron mates copy his notes if they wanted, and he even let them look at his goofy drawings of England and of the other pilots.

 

However, the doodles he took care to keep private were those of Lithuania and Japan. The latter had returned to Europe a few weeks before Germany and Russia invaded Poland in tandem, presumably sensing trouble in the air like a dog could smell an oncoming storm. Before America had left for Burma, he’d felt Lithuania’s absence every time he’d turned around to tell Lithuania about something exciting, only to be met with empty air. 

 

As for Japan, despite what he thought of the Japs themselves, he actually held no real animosity towards the national personification also known by the human name of Kiku. He’d like to hope that the sensitive, awkward man he knew from previous trade-related liaisons didn’t approve of his own government’s -- or, hell, his own damn people’s -- actions. 

 

Unfortunately, there was no real way for him to find out the truth -- and his judgement was likely wishful thinking, regardless. All he could hope for was that he wouldn’t have to fight against Japan one-on-one at any point during this war. He knew firsthand what blinding loyalty felt like. 

 

Hell, some would say that his newfound loyalty to Chennault was no different from any nation’s dutiful obedience to their leader -- though, in this case, America would listen to himself, then President Roosevelt, and then finally Colonel Chennault if a decision ever came down to that. 

 

He’d had plenty of experience roughing it in the West for years at a time without taking any orders from his government; if he were to suddenly crash his P-40 in the Burmese rainforest and find himself in hostile country, as Chennault had warned was possible, he could more than handle himself with his M1911 in hand against beasts and Japs alike, no higher-ups necessary. Unlike certain nations, he thrived just as much without an authority as he did underneath one. 

 

His allegiance to the Colonel and the President were conditional on whether or not the relationship was mutually beneficial and, in this case, he’d say it was. After all, he’d still be drinking floor polish in the White House’s dining room if President Roosevelt hadn’t given his tacit approval to this band of American mercenaries, and getting drunk on illicit alcohol underneath a painting of good ol’ George Washington’s disapproving face was a snooze compared to the tropical adventure he was sure to embark on soon!

 

 

* * *

  
  


After several grueling days of repetitive lectures, America couldn’t help but excitedly tap his feet as he eyed up the line of P-40s extending before him on the runway.

 

That day, August 27th, Chennault had encouraged the pilots to get some practice in the cockpit of a P-40 so as to avoid fiery crashes once they were called to action. This practice was established mostly with the Navy men in mind, as they were accustomed to flying larger bomber and flying-boat planes, but as far as America knew none of the non-Navy pilots had ever flown a P-40 before now either. 

 

He tried to temper his excitement by reminding himself that he himself hadn’t flown in any newer military fighter plane models, since he previously saw no point in enlisting in the military during peacetime, so there’d be a learning curve he’d have to overcome before he could shoot some Japs out of the sky. 

 

And, of course, the thickly built P-40 was actually very different from the smaller, more rudimentary biplanes he’d flown as a civilian, as he’d learned from Chennault’s lectures, so overly relying on his previous experiences could lead to a potentially debilitating crash -- even if said experiences in fighter planes already made him a more capable pilot than many of the other AVG recruits.

 

Sure, America couldn’t exactly die from a plane crash -- nothing short of his peoples’ utter annihilation would make him susceptible to death, after all, and he wasn’t planning on willingly giving up his immortality any time soon either -- but he didn’t exactly relish the idea of suffering grave injuries amidst fiery wreckage and then explaining his miraculous recovery to his horrified mortal compatriots. 

 

So then, he couldn’t allow himself to grow cocky, even if he desperately wanted to rub his success in aviation in England’s stupid face as soon as he saw him again. 

 

America took a moment to inspect the P-40 he was taking for a test flight. The inside of the P-40’s cockpit contained a seat with a cushion and two heavy sheets of backing metal as well as an array of dials, knobs, levers, and pumps. He hoisted himself inside and adjusted his parachute on his back before he breathed in the plane’s characteristic aroma of hot metal, exhaust gases, and paint -- a perfume that most pilots preferred to Chanel No. 5. 

 

“You’re a real beauty, aren’t you?” he murmured to the P-40. He tapped his finger against his chin in thought. “Actually, on second thought, maybe not. I’m sure there are better-looking planes out there. But you’re a real dependable girl, you know. You’re built to take some and give some.” 

 

The P-40 gave no response. 

 

He pulled the crank on the right side of the cockpit to close the canopy after he’d strapped himself in to his seat. With machine-like precision, he adjusted the levers and pumps controlling the plane’s gear and hydraulics according to Chennault’s instructions. The engine started with a roar, the machinery of the plane humming to warm life all around America. 

 

Outside the cockpit, the crew chief gave America the signal to proceed. America shot him a sloppy thumbs-up.

 

He snaked his P-40 along the runway, as the in-line Allison engine in the P-40’s nose obscured his frontal vision and thus increased the risk of a ground collision, before reaching an open swathe of runway.

 

At this point, the plane lurched forward with a blast of power, and America pulled the tail up and retracted the wheels. He felt the P-40's weight shift as he left the ground without a hitch. 

 

The plane gained altitude rapidly at over two thousand feet per minute and then cleaved clean through a light dusting of clouds. 

 

For a moment, America enjoyed the expansive views of the Burmese rainforest below as well as his newfound aerial freedom. He grinned as he did an experimental roll, then another, and then tried a spin in mid-air. The P-40 responded smoothly to his motions, the roar of the engine filling him with exhilaration beyond description. He let out a whoop of pure delight that was quickly swallowed up by the wind whipping against the canopy.

 

After an hour of practicing aerial tricks in the P-40 a thousand feet above the dense green forest, he leveled off for a landing and taxied steadily down the runway.

 

When the blades of the propeller finally puttered to a stop, Howard rushed out to greet him. 

 

“How was it, Fred?” Howard shouted. 

 

America cranked the canopy open enough to shout back, “I wouldn’t trade it for the world!” 

 

From then on, every day America and the other AVG pilots would fly their P-40s for two hours out of the day, occasionally pairing up for practice dogfights in preparation for what they all knew was eventually coming. 

 

Chennault watched them from a bamboo watchtower set up by the runway, from which he’d observe them using a pair of binoculars. On occasion, Chennault would make use of the P-40’s newly installed radio receivers to critique the pilots’ technique, though America noted with some glee that Chennault only specifically critiqued him once for a reckless landing.

 

The lengthy lectures on Chennault’s aerial theory and practice flights in their P-40s weren’t the only trials America and the AVG pilots had to undergo, of course. Paul Frillmann, the chaplain recruited for the AVG, led the pilots in regular calisthenics exercises that left the pilots sweaty and exhausted by the end of the day. 

 

These exercises didn’t have nearly the same effect on America, seeing as he could’ve lifted a P-40 above his head without breaking a sweat, but he pretended to tire at the same pace as the other men so as to not arouse suspicion.

 

He enjoyed the baseball games Chennault pitched on Sundays far more, anyway, as he could shed his clothing and roll around in the mud as if he were back in New Jersey or Illinois enjoying a casual game of ball with his citizens. 

 

In the evenings, the AVG pilots would wind down by playing cards and enjoying drinks in the mess hall. Whenever either America or Chennault joined in, the men tried to talk them into revealing more details about themselves -- but while Chennault was willing to regale the pilots with an outline of his life alongside a few more specific stories, America only offered vague facts about himself. 

 

“Any relatives?” Gil Bright -- a fellow Second Squadron pilot -- asked America one night, trying to play it casual by throwing cards on the table at the same time. 

 

“Just a twin brother,” America said, taking care not to reveal his hand by making any expression at all. “I consider him the younger one. He also has military experience, but in the Canadian Armed Forces. Short version of the story is that we were raised by different parents in different countries. I’d say I’m a way better pilot than him, though!” 

 

A few pilots around the table raised their eyebrows at that, though none commented. America still hadn’t said much about his military history, leading some pilots to conclude that he was one of the traveling freedom-fighter mercenaries Chennault had worked with earlier in the war or that he was perhaps even hiding a dishonorable discharge behind his back. 

 

America didn’t mind letting them draw their own conclusions about his backstory, seeing as he couldn’t exactly reveal that not only had he fought in every war the United States had conducted since its inception, he was also permitted access to any position and any level of security clearance in his own military according to his wishes. 

 

Still, he offered as much specific information as he could about himself so as to reassure his fellow AVG pilots that he wasn’t some infiltrator or spy on the enemy’s side. If it came down to it, he could use his authority as a national personification to influence his men, though he’d much rather earn their trust than force it.

 

In the end, they weren’t his enemies -- and, besides, he likes spending time with people who don’t shrink away in deference whenever they see him.

 

“Got a girl waiting for you at home?” another pilot asked, a relative newcomer whose name America couldn’t quite remember. 

 

America froze in place. His thoughts immediately flickered to England, even though England wasn’t a girl and definitely, absolutely had no romantic interest in him. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if he liked England at all most days. He really didn’t know why he was even thinking of England in that moment.

 

Could he just make something up and base an entirely fictional girlfriend off of someone he knew? Maybe President Roosevelt? 

 

Nah, that was really, really weird and he probably couldn’t properly spin it as a joke if someone realized that his fictional girlfriend bore a striking resemblance to the current President of the United States. 

 

He must have inadvertently shown some degree of panic on his face, because the pilot next to him clapped his hand on his shoulder and grinned disarmingly.

 

“Gee, ‘Fred, we’re just kidding with you. Sometimes you’re a harder nut to crack than the Colonel!” 

 

Laughter rippled across the table. America kept his face expressionless as he set down his hand of cards with a resounding thump. 

 

“I think we’re done here, guys,” he said with a slight smirk as several mens’ eyes bugged out of their skulls at the hand he’d just played. “Say, does anyone want to discuss flight techniques? I’m sure a few of us here could use some help with their luck!”

 

“How the hell do you always do that, Fred?” Armstrong asked with a nervous chuckle. 

 

America just winked in response. “Gambler’s secret.”

 

Day after day, this routine of strenuous daytime training coupled with a brief period of rest every night continued. America felt his flab gained from his foray aboard the _Jagersfontein_ fade away even faster than before as his training in the rainforest combined with the disgusting yet filling mess hall meals -- America identified them as some sort of curried meat mixed with potatoes and cabbage, albeit prepared rather oddly -- pummeled him into shape. 

 

Over time, America felt his body grow taut with muscles, reflecting the state he’d been in for most of the teens and twenties before Wall Street had to crash and burn most of his body’s muscle and fat in the process. He’d still been muscular enough afterwards to spend a few months working grape fields in California, and he’d say that he’d still looked healthier than the skinny European nations he shook hands with at world meetings, but he still hadn’t regained his pre-Depression musculature up until now. 

 

Sometimes he’d flex his arm just to watch his muscles bulge, and then he’d gleefully imagine England jealously admiring the muscle America had put on since the last time they’d seen each other. If only he knew England’s postal address, he’d totally use his camera to take pictures of his impressive muscles and mail them to him just to show off.

 

 _England, England, England._ America couldn’t help but think about showing England just how strong he was every time he performed an aerial trick in a P-40 or hit a ground target during shooting practice.

 

Speaking to England again for the first time in decades had ignited something dormant in him -- a burning desire to prove once and for all that he wasn’t some just some unruly upstart who lived in England’s shadow. 

 

He wanted England to admire him with wide eyes and utter the sing-song praises from his lips that America so craved. Maybe then he could forgive England for insulting him and then giving him the cold shoulder in the Raffles Hotel. And after America’s government had been so generous as to give the RAF a shipment of newer P-40s and resign their own men to an older batch! 

 

The first order of business, he concluded, was to shoot down a bunch of Japs before his year-long contract with CAMCO expired. Somewhere along the way he’d show off his heroism to England, and then maybe he’d consider teaching England a thing or two about flying. But that would only happen when England finally acknowledged how awesome he was!

 

At times, he also found himself imagining a juicy hamburger coupled with fries, malted milk, and a bottle of Coca-Cola whenever the mess hall grub looked especially unappetizing. Oh, what he’d give to import an all-American roadside diner to Toungoo! Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or something like that. 

 

America soon realized, in a moment of clarity, that he yearned to see England’s face just as much as he yearned to sink his teeth into an all-American hamburger or down an ice-cold glass of Coca-Cola. 

 

That was new. He didn’t really know what to think of that.

 

Also, why did he think of England when he was asked about a girl who could be waiting for him at home? He knew actual girls. Hell, he knew girls who were nicer to him than crummy England had ever been in the past century or so. He could’ve even said that no, he hadn’t found the right girl yet, and laughed it off. 

 

So why did he immediately imagine England when he envisioned the possibility of romance? And why did he panic? 

 

Sure, attraction between nations wasn’t uncommon, and attraction between male nations definitely wasn’t uncommon either, and he didn’t have much interest in mortal women anyway, but why was he dreaming about _England_ specifically? England, whose global power he was supplanting and whose personality chafed against his own? 

 

He almost wrote these thoughts down in his leatherbound notebook before, at the last possible moment, he decided against it.

 

Those thoughts -- those _desires_ \-- felt too utterly personal to confide in something as impersonal as a notebook. Besides, what would happen if someone broke into his notebook and found out that he was fantasizing about the stiff-lipped British officer he’d traded jabs with in Singapore?

 

He placed his notebook back in his bag and laid back, listening to the faint snoring of the men sprawled on straw mattresses around him. 

 

What this new development entailed for the months ahead, he wasn’t sure, but he wasn’t about to let wayward thoughts of his former mentor distract him from his newfound tropical adventure. 

 

If anything, that would be playing right into England’s scheming hands! No, if anything, he had to prove that he was truly England’s equal, if not superior, and dreaming about his former mentor’s handsome face instead of getting some much-needed rest wouldn’t help his case at all!

 

He fell asleep dreaming of seeing England again and giving him a good walloping in man-to-man combat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Elvis Presley’s song of the same name. Yeah, yeah, it’s an anachronism, given that this fic takes place in the early 1940s, but the lyrics of the song fit this chapter very well, haha. 
> 
> I am not an aviation buff, so take my description of the P-40’s mechanical functions with a grain of salt. I referenced first-hand descriptions and various cockpit tours on YouTube in order to lend the flying segment of this chapter some authenticity, but after a certain point my eyes started to glaze over from information overload. X-X
> 
> Stick with me here. We're a few months away from the really *exciting* bits, as evidenced by the fact that the U.S. hasn't actually entered WWII at this point in time. Keep a tab on that! Future chapters will feature more creative liberties as America's path ultimately diverges from those of the other AVG pilots. 
> 
> As to why this fic is called "Tigers in the Sky", that will become adequately clear in a few chapters or so.
> 
> By the way, I made a few small edits to previous chapters for the sake of correcting errors in grammar and continuity. These continuity fixes are no deeper than changing the descriptions America uses for certain events and places to remain consistent with future chapters, so they shouldn't affect your understanding of this fic too much. Just wanted to give a heads-up regardless. ^^


End file.
